


What Happens in Vegas

by outruntheavalanche



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Not Baseball Players, F/M, Las Vegas, Las Vegas Wedding, Not Beta Read, On Hiatus, Silly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: “Oh my God.” Ginny pressed a hand over her mouth. “I was given away byElvis?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know I have another WIP going, but I rediscovered this old fic from another fandom and decided to rework it for Ginny/Mike. The good news is I had the whole fic plotted out in a notebook, so I'll probably finish it. Maybe.
> 
> This first chapter is probably a little uneven, considering it went through two different fandoms and rewrites beforehand, but the rest will be original as I deleted about four chapters I didn't feel like reworking to fit Ginny and MIke, lol. 
> 
> Also, I wrote the first version of this fic in 2002 so it contained references to VHS lmao.
> 
> The rating will probably change with additional chapters.

and i’m just the devil with love to spare  
— Elvis Presley, “Viva Las Vegas”

Intrusive sunlight stabbed into Ginny Baker’s eyes and she threw an arm over her face as she let out a quiet groan. Ginny yawned and stretched and pulled the bedsheets to her chin—they weren’t the familiar 300 count that she had on her bed at home, nor were they the rough, scratchy foam rubber kind you found at a low-end hotel. They were nice and soft, almost silky. Ginny rubbed them against her cheek and murmured, as she was slowly shaken out of the last vestiges of sleep.

Ginny opened one eye.

Something wasn’t right. Something was _off_.

Ginny sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep and grit out of her eyes, before looking around, taking in her surroundings.

There was an empty bucket on the floor, next to her side of the bed, and beside it were two empty bottles of Dom Perignon. A champagne glass lay on its side, its contents having soaked into the carpet, leaving behind a sticky mess. Ginny reached out one hand and placed it on the headboard, a large clamshell trussed up in gold and créme lamé. She traced a fingertip over the ornate gold medallion above the lamé-covered clamshell and went to slide out of bed.

Ginny found herself jerked back like a dog on a chain. Something was holding her in place—or rather, _someone_.

She looked down at her arm and let out a soft gasp of surprise.

A gray metal handcuff was locked around her wrist. And that handcuff was attached to its twin. Which was currently being occupied by the wrist of a sleeping (or possibly unconscious) man.

The man laying next to her moaned and went to cover his face with his hands. His wrist stayed locked in place and his eyelids fluttered open. Ginny’s bed partner wrinkled his face in growing annoyance, tugging at his shackled wrist. His eyes flew open and widened in shock when he saw Ginny beside him in the bed. 

“What the—who the hell are you?” the guy asked, jerking on his shackled wrist.

Ginny went tumbling against his bare chest. “Jesus, watch out,” she snarled, shoving at him. “Who the hell am I? Who the hell are _you_?” 

“Mike Lawson. You?” Mike ran a hand over his bearded chin.

“Ginny. Ginny Baker,” she said.

“Well, Ginny Baker,” Mike said, giving a gentle tug on the handcuffs. “We're kind of in a pickle.”

Ginny scrunched her nose at him. “Pickle?” She looked down at her flimsy, silky nightgown and picked at the ribbon holding the bodice together. She shot Mike a wary glance. “Why are you handcuffed to me?”

Mike pulled his knees to his chest and rested his arm across them, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I think I should be asking you the same question.”

“No freaking clue.” Ginny tugged on the handcuff, trying to wedge her hand free to no avail. “I have the worst headache ever. It feels like there's a little construction crew in there trying to get out.”

“Me too,” Mike mused, tilting his head, watching on as she tried to wriggle her hand free. “Maybe there’s a key somewhere in this room.”

Ginny stopped struggling with the cuff and began sorting through the stuff on the nightstand next to her, holding things up to the light before tossing them aside. “Aha!” She held up a small gold key and jiggled it into the lock, biting down on her tongue as she focused hard on the task at hand. “It's not working…”

“Here,” Mike said, holding out a hand. “Let me try.” She handed him the key and he gave it a shot, before letting out a frustrated groan and tossing it aside. “It's not the right key. Do you see any more keys on the table?”

Ginny shook her head, snagging her bottom lip between her teeth. “Nope.”

Mike sighed. “I kind of have to go to the bathr—”

“Oh no you don't,” Ginny interrupted, holding up her hands. Mike winced as the metal cuff dug into his wrist. “There's no way in _hell_ I'm going in there with you.”

Mike sighed again and shook his head, glancing down at his wrist, rubbing at the red, irritated skin. 

How did I ever end up handcuffed to him? Ginny wondered, as she watched Mike rub at his wrist. Mike wasn't exactly her type. He had to be in his thirties, at the very least. She could see streaks of gray in his beard that he hadn’t Just-For-Men’d away.

Ginny leaned over to dig through the drawer under the nightstand. Mike let out a soft, quiet laugh.

Ginny looked up and scowled at him. “What's so funny?” She pushed her curly hair out of her face and pulled herself up, folding her legs underneath her frame. Ginny flattened the gauzy pleated nightgown over her thighs primly.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just wondering how this even happened. I don’t even know you..”

“Me too, actually.” Ginny glanced about the room and set her mouth in a straight line. “There's a DVD on that table, by the balcony.” She gestured with her shoulder and Mike turned to look. Sure enough, a DVD case rested atop a manila folder.

He jumped to his feet, and Ginny let out a howl of pain. “Sorry, sorry.” He hunched down and waited for Ginny to plant her feet on the floor.

She rubbed her shoulder and jabbed her elbow into his side. “That hurt, asshole.”

Mike and Ginny gingerly made their way over to the table and he picked up the DVD case to inspect it. 

“Baker and Lawson… Wedding.”

Ginny’s jaw dropped. She’d _married_ this guy? And she had no memory of it? “No! You're lying!” 

“It's right here. In black and white.” Mike handed Ginny the DVD. She stared at it, her brow knotting and her lips pursing.

“Well, I must've been wasted, because I don't remember a goddamn thing.” She let the case fall from her fingers as she pressed a hand to her forehead.

Mike bent down to retrieve the tape slowly, bracing his free hand on Ginny’s shoulder, mindful not to jerk her arm out of the socket this time, and looked up at her. “I think we should watch it. Maybe it'll give us some clues.”

“No shirt, Sherlock.” Ginny grabbed the DVD and she and Mike moved as one to the television set. Ginny popped it in, pushed **PLAY** and stood back, crossing her arm over her waist and tapping her foot on the floor. 

Mike watched intently as a smaller, fuzzier, and very drunk version of himself slouched in front of a cheap altar, plastic flowers strewn about in some sort of canopy. A man in a priest's collar, white leather jumpsuit, and black Elvis wig stood beside him, holding a small Bible in his pudgy hands. The doors to the chapel opened and the camera swung in their direction, as Ginny, equally as drunk, stumbled in on the arm of a large, beefy man in a silver leather Elvis jumpsuit.

“Oh my God.” Ginny pressed a hand over her mouth. “I was given away by _Elvis_?”

Mike turned his attention back to the TV. 

“And by the power vested in me, by the state of Nevada, and by the Dancing Elvis Casino and Chapel, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The tiny, fuzzy Mike on the TV screen pawed the white tulle veil away from Ginny’s face and puckered his lips as she cringed and tried to push him away. 

“Kiss me. I'm Irish,” said Mike’s doppelganger.

Meanwhile, back in the hotel room of the giant gold clamshell and the mirrored ceiling and the pricey champagne and the expensive silk sheets, Mike cringed. “ _Jesus_.” He paused, glancing over at Ginny. “I’m not actually Irish, by the way.”

Ginny stabbed at the **STOP** button and jerked on Mike’s arm, viciously. “There's no way in Hell I'm spending one more minute chained to you! There has to be a way to get these cuffs off!” She looked around the room frantically, head swiveling. “I have to get out of here. I'm going to throw up!”

Ginny ran for the bathroom, Mike in tow, and fell to her knees in front of the toilet as she heaved into the bowl. He bent over and pulled some toilet paper off the roll, holding it out to her.

“Thank you.” She wiped her mouth, crumpled the Kleenex into a ball and threw it away, before sitting back on her haunches and throwing her head back. “Why me, God? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Hey! My mom says I'm a catch,” Mike insisted.

Ginny’s face contorted, and for a second, Mike thought she might cry. Instead, she burst out laughing. “Oh, honey, that's adorable,” she giggled.

Mike sulked and joined Ginny against the wall. He flicked his thumb at the shag rug. “I say we find a chainsaw and hack off your arm and have done with it.”

“ _My_ arm?” Ginny exclaimed, her jaw dropping. “Fuck that noise. You cut off _your_ arm!”

Mike sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Christ. I don't know what to do.”

“Wait a minute! We might not have to resort to chopping off body parts just yet,” Ginny said, patting him on the arm and winking. “I may have some paperclips in my purse. Maybe I can jimmy the lock!”

“Great idea! Let's go.” Mike got to his feet—and almost pulled Ginny’s arm out of its socket for the second time that morning. “Sorry.”

The two of them raced back into the room and Ginny spotted her purse resting on top of the hope chest at the end of the bed. She pulled Mike along, and threw herself at the purse like a lineman after a quarterback, ripping it open and tearing through it. 

“ _Yes_! Found it!” Ginny held the paperclip between her teeth and straightened it out before sliding it into the keyhole and wriggling it in the lock.

After a few more tense seconds, as Ginny jimmied the lock, the handcuffs unlatched and fell to the floor. Ginny let out a yell of triumph and pulled her arm to her chest, protectively, as if she felt like Mike would come after it and try to reclaim it.

Mike rubbed his aching wrist. “Thank God.”

“Free at last!” Ginny went over to the set of drawers and began tossing her things into her luggage, as Mike took inventory of his belongings. 

Ginny’s emergency stash of cash was in its rightful place in the inner lining of her purse; at least Mike wasn't a thief. Her black leather jacket was folded neatly and waiting for her on top of the dresser and her pumps were on the floor next to said dresser. Her watch and a Ziplock of toiletries were sitting on his nightstand. Everything looked to be in place.

“Well,” she said, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder and pushing her hair out of her face, “if you leave me your address, I can have annulment papers to you first thing Monday morning.” She checked her watch. “By the way, it's Saturday. Afternoon.”

“Thanks,” he said, scratching out his address on a scrap of hotel stationery. “Here you go.”

Ginny smiled and tucked the slip of paper into her pocket. “Well, nice knowin' ya, Mr. Lawson. Hope I never have to see you again!” Ginny waved cheerily and left.

Mike spotted the case sitting on the bed and grabbed it, running after her. “Wait, what about the DVD?” he called out, but she was already gone.


End file.
